Frosty Walk.

I remember being most impressed by living near the forest. From my house, the vast trees stretched endlessly, like a living, breathing painting that transformed daily. To be honest, hiking or running in the mountains felt impossible in this weather. Everything about this place—the sights, the weather, even the air—felt unfamiliar and new to me. I had moved in January and was immediately met with wild temperature changes and freezing winds. If I ventured outside without the right clothes, my hands and nose would go numb within seconds.

One particular stroll remains etched in my memory. It was a crisp, sunny day when I decided to explore beyond my usual route. The sky, a bright expanse of blue, suddenly darkened, replaced by a thick blanket of ominous clouds. Rain poured down, soaking me completely. I hesitated under the massive Scots pine, its branches a tempting refuge. Yet, memories of Mexican tales about lightning striking trees during storms filled my mind with unease. Despite the fear, I sought shelter there anyway. The rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops on the leaves created a soothing symphony, blending with the distant chirping of birds.

Standing there, drenched and shivering, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of self-pity. Damp clothes clung to my skin, making me uncomfortably aware of the cold. Suddenly, a man on a bicycle pedaled past, his figure cutting through the misty rain. He stopped, noticing my distress, and approached with genuine concern. The earthy scent of rain-soaked soil filled the air as he asked if I was all right.

I answered honestly, expressing my frustration with the weather and my sodden state. He smiled, a serene and empathetic expression that softened the harshness of the moment. “It’s your clothes, not the weather,” he said simply. Those few words resonated deeply.

In that instant, I pictured my raincoat, waterproof boots, and all the accessories I hadn’t thought to wear. His simple advice shaped how I approached future walks, teaching me that preparation could transform discomfort into enjoyment.

Little by little, I began venturing deeper into the forest. Coming from a warm country, I struggled to adjust to the island’s unpredictable weather, which shifted from timid sunlight to crisp, biting nights without warning. I overcompensated, bundling myself in layers of clothing: jackets, gloves, scarves, and even more. I quickly earned the nickname “the walking onion,” and honestly, it was deserved. I wore a bulky coat, several sweaters, and thick socks, convinced I needed them to survive my first winter in such cold conditions.

The lack of daylight unsettled me the most. Darkness descended too quickly, like a heavy curtain that blanketed everything. Yet I knew I had to push past my discomfort. Winter challenged me, both physically and emotionally. The biting wind pierced through layers, leaving my skin prickling, my muscles tense, and my breath visible in the frosty air.

Short days brought more than darkness—they brought melancholy. With less sunlight, I felt perpetually tired and unmotivated. The gloom affected my mood, amplifying feelings of irritability and restlessness. Yet despite these challenges, walking in the forest during winter offered a quiet, austere beauty.

Nature seemed to pause, sinking into a deep silence. The trees, stripped of their leaves, stood like solemn sentinels. Without summer’s lush greenery, the forest revealed a quieter, more mysterious face. Snow crunched underfoot, its sound echoing in the stillness. The fleeting light cast long shadows that made the woods feel both magical and haunting.

Many times, I miscalculated and stayed out too long. Darkness would catch me halfway through the trail, or even farther. More than once, I found myself fumbling for my phone’s flashlight, navigating my way back with limited visibility and the cold air biting my face. Those moments were not fun—but they taught me to adapt.

Though winter tested my patience, it also taught me resilience. In the stillness of the forest and the fleeting daylight, I discovered not only the beauty of nature but also the quiet strength within myself.

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Last modified on 2024-12-09